Kot Bayun
by girl in the glen
Summary: A little mystery, a little fun... a little cat, perhaps.


Napoleon Solo woke up to an orange blur perched atop his chest, the subtle hum of contentment in stark contrast to the condition of his head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see another lump that he assumed was his partner.

"Illya…' gently at first. " **Illya!** " No need to prolong his slumber, there was probably reason to believe they should get out of here, and quickly. The cat lept from Solo's chest at the noise and landed on top of Illya.

The lump mumbled something, Napoleon thought he caught syllables in at least two different languages. That he didn't immediately move, especially after the cat had landed, could be a problem. Napoleon, his head buzzing and eyes blurred slightly, managed to roll onto his side and reach out with one arm towards his partner. Hmmm. That arm wouldn't quite bridge the span between them. Had it grown shorter somehow?

With Herculean effort he used the abnormally inefficient limb to hoist himself upwards until finally, and with great effort, he was sitting up rather than lying down. Well, that was some progress at least.

Illya was now snoring contentedly, the presence of the cat seemingly offering a soothing effect rather than the expected annoyance. Well, Napoleon had been annoyed but then he hadn't felt the same about cats since that episode at headquarters…

"Illya, wake up!" He shooed the cat off of his partner and grabbed the Russian by his shoulders, hoping to rattle him into consciousness. It worked for THRUSH, perhaps it was a good method after all.

Illya mumbled again but rolled himself over in the process, his arms failing to give him enough support to actually sit up. Having failed with that technique he then sat up, unassisted, with his hands behind his head.

"You just did a sit up. This isn't exercise class.' The blond ignored his partner while he got on his knees and then, using Napoleon's head like a brace, continued until he was standing. He offered his friend a hand up.

"That hurt my neck."

"Sorry. Do you want to stand up or not?"

Napoleon clutched Illya's forearm and let the smaller man pull him up. Dizzy, groggy, confused… he was all of those things. No memories of how they had arrived here or why came to mind, and without asking the question Illya was shrugging his shoulders as if to say, 'me either'.

"Do you think it's some new THRUSH serum, some …" Napoleon stopped in mid-sentence when Illya picked up a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka… an empty bottle. Beside it were two other bottles and three shot glasses.

Upon closer inspection, the two were beginning to realize where they were.

"I believe you live here Napoleon." The smug look on his face belied Illya's own sense of failure. He had become drunk on vodka, one shot at a time by the looks of it. Napoleon was disbelieving. It was his apartment, although it looked different somehow…

"Where'd the cat come from? I don't own a cat." Napoleon was flummoxed to be sure. Not only were they in his home, but there were three glasses and a cat. An orange tabby who was watching them them now with an amused look on her face.

"Wasn't there a woman involved? I distinctly remember a woman, a singer, with a familiar accent and very bright hair…' Illya's words trailed off as he looked towards the cat. Napoleon saw the expression on his friend's face change as he looked at the prim little feline, his own memories of a beautiful woman and seemingly endless songs.

"There is a creature in Russian folklore known as a Bajun… Кот-Баюн. A cat storyteller who puts spells on people by telling endless stories and singing songs…" Images of Illya's parents and grandparents came immediately to mind: the warm glow of a fire as his maternal babushka took on the role of the Bajun cat, lulling him to sleep with her stories.

Napoleon shook his head, an attempt to clear it of the cobwebs and fog inside. Looking at Illya he recognized one of the man's infrequent visits to the past.

"Are you telling me that we were … that this cat put a spell on us?" They saw a lot of unbelievable things working for UNCLE, but a woman who was a cat who told stories and… No, this was too much.

Illya looked up from his memories, blue eyes shining as all evidence of his inebriation lifted.

"No, I am not suggesting anything of the sort. We simply got drunk and passed out, and that is all.' The smile was not reassuring to the American. What else was Illya thinking?

"It is merely a coincidence, I suppose, that this orange cat reminds us of that singer. That Russian singer."

Napoleon's smile was more of a smirk. Illya could not convince him of anything more mysterious than what he saw with his own eyes. Empty bottles of vodka and that orange cat.

 _Where did that cat come from?_


End file.
